Here
by E. S. Young
Summary: She had been There, knew what it was like. She was an army nurse in the hospital where they brought him, bearing a pretty face, sweet words, and a syringe full of blue. The story of how Max met Lizzy. Max/OFC
1. Help!

**Chapter I**

_**Help!**_

**Note****:** All I can say is that I should not be writing this. Really, _really_ should not be writing this. The last thing I should be doing before college starts is launching myself into a multi-chapter fic, especially if there's a chance that it will not be completed (which really, really bothers me). So…yeah. Shouldn't be doing this. Should just stick to the one-shots. But I'm posting it anyway, I think mainly because I'm rather fond of how I plan on incorporating the Beatles songs into the story. That said, I hope that you at least enjoy the (hopefully not _too _long) story of how Maxwell E. Carrigan met Dizzy Miss Lizzy.

**۞۞۞**

"_Got a good reason_

_For takin' the easy way out._

_Got a good reason_

_For takin' the easy way out, yeah._

"_She was a day tripper—_

_A one-way ticket, yeah._

_It took me so long_

_To find out._

_And I found out._"

— the Beatles, "Day Tripper"

**۞۞۞**

All she wanted was a Goddamn bag of M&Ms.

_Three words, kid: No. Such. Luck._ The only candy this place had had in months were Milky Way, Mars, and Heath bars, and Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. Milky Ways were okay, but one could only consume so many before they grew sick of them. Mars Bars were something she'd never tried and had no plans on trying in the future (no matter _how _great Michelle said they were). And as for the peanut butter cups and Heath bars, well, (and this was just her opinion) they had to be two of the worst confections in existence—both were gritty, all-around nasty, and tasted entirely of peanuts and nothing else.

It was just as well, though. She'd practically (okay, all but literally) been living on candy bars for as long as she'd been here and that couldn't possibly be good for her system. Funny: A nurse—someone who should have been more knowledgeable than most about what was healthy and what wasn't—could have really cared less about her physical well-being. What was really crazy was that she didn't even _like _chocolate all that much. She much preferred licorice rope or Root Beer Barrels. Unfortunately, it seemed that cocoa-based candies were the only kind that the soldiers would eat; either that, or it was cheap for the Army just to buy a bunch of Hershey's products (probably the latter). True, she could have just given in and forced down the so-called food that they served, but…nah.

Although, in all honesty, what she really wanted was a piece of fruit (not to mention a carton of expensive cigs and not the cheap-assed ones available here, a good lay with a good-looking guy, and, of course, M&Ms), be it an apple, orange, banana—a peach would have been really nice, but, at the moment, the closest she could get to that was the too-sugary canned crap that the Army served. And, unless on the verge of blacking out, she refused to touch that stuff. This attitude she blamed entirely on her grandmother who had always seen consuming canned food as some sort of sin, especially when the same things were available fresh. As a result, she'd made it her duty (one of many) to keep her beloved grandchildren as far away from any "sticky, syrup-coated, teeth-rotting substitutes."

Then again, while a peach would have been nice, she had cigarettes (no matter how lousy they may have been) and at least she could get her hands on _some _kind of candy. So, all things considered, what she wanted, really and truly wanted, was a good lay.

_Again, no such luck._ Oh, there were plenty of handsome men to be had, all of whom would be more than willing to accommodate her. The only problem, simply put, was _her_. She was a flirt, to be sure, but not a _slut_. As a girl who was rather picky when it came to any and everything, men were no exception. So, while she liked kissing, she liked fooling around, she liked sex, and she even liked experimenting…lately, she had been having a terrible time finding someone who she was actually drawn to enough that she wanted to have some fun with them. And, really, if she wasn't attracted to the person, then what was the point of screwing them? She could have just settled for simple foreplay (and sometimes did), but the men here were so horny and sex-deprived that they often tried to take it too far (not that she blamed them, since it was difficult to restrain herself at times). Besides, with the irritating lack of birth control pills and rubbers, was the risk really worth it?

And anyway, as a nurse, she always had much more pressing matters to take care of.

"Nurse!"

Like now.

Quickly, she turned in the direction of the noise. Cap askew, eyes bright and urgent, Sgt. Henderson, the head nurse, burst through the double doors, sending them swinging wildly.

"Emergency—_now_, nurse!"

With no further explanation, the older woman darted down the hall, her short, blonde curls bobbing as she ran. In a instant, she was behind her—sex, cigarettes, and M&Ms forgotten.

"What happened, Sergeant?"

"No time; just move." Nurse Henderson was robotic, eyes forward, completely focused on the task ahead. This was the other woman's tactic for keeping herself together: Don't think; just act. She had erected a wall to separate herself from the carnage that surrounded them, and she had advised all of the other nurses to do the same. A nurse should not, Nurse Henderson had said, under any circumstances, allow herself to be affected by what was going on around her.

Unfortunately, even after a year's worth of service, her wall was still unreliable, though at least now it could withstand more attacks than it had when she first arrived.

"Captain Darling," the older woman suddenly warned, as if reading her thoughts, though not bothering to look at her.

"What happened?" she snapped back as together they pushed through another set of double doors.

"Explosion," Nurse Henderson stated sharply.

Her heart was in her throat, but she didn't stop.

"How many wounded?"

"You'll only have to worry about half of them."

Meaning that the other half were going to die.

"How many is that?" she asked tightly.

Nurse Henderson considered.

"Six. Maybe eight."

So that meant that at least twenty had been brought in, and that out of that twenty the Army had deemed only six of them worth saving. Possibly eight, but it was unlikely.

What disturbed her the most wasn't how unfeeling the military could be, but rather how, a year ago, she would have been outraged, furious, demanding to know why the other nine or so severely injured men didn't deserve just as much care as the others. Now, however, she was resigned to it, had accepted (albeit, reluctantly) the fact that, in all likelihood, those men were going to die anyway and it _was_, in some coldhearted way, more logical not to waste too much time tending to them. This realization and similar ones were what made her wonder if she still had a soul, and her only confirmation were the nights when she would wake up gasping, breathless, as if strangled, with visions of herself standing in the doorway of a hospital room that was piled sky high with body parts.

"_Sort them out. Keep that arm—we can still use it. Those legs are useless, full of holes—throw them out. We might have use for those eyes…_"

_Get back!_ her mind urged her. At once, she snapped to attention, focusing her thoughts on what was happening around her and nothing more.

**۞۞۞**

"Lt. Gardener!"

She twisted around upon hearing her name. Before she knew what was happening, two nurses had flown past her.

"_Nancy!_" the one impatiently called over her shoulder and she barely recognized the light, curvy form as that of Captain Darling.

She bit her lip, steeling herself for what was about to come, trying to fight the rising terror within her. Unlike Lizzy Darling, who seemed to be growing more hardened and cynical as each day went by, she was finding it increasingly difficult to keep it together. She was always on the edge, always tense, nervous, biting her nails, chewing at her lip, twisting her hair, eyes darting. Anymore, she was afraid nearly all the time, and if she wasn't afraid, then she was depressed. Seriously, inconsolably depressed. Men were dying left and right, all around her, and not just men, but women and children as well—people who should have never been dragged into this war. _Never_. And it was impossible to save all of them; she knew that. But did they have to lose _so many?_ And the ones that survived…sometimes she thought that they were worse off than those that had died. They would leave here alive, yes, but heavily scarred, blind, missing teeth, eyes, limbs—that one, the poor boy… Both of his arms had had to be amputated. His life was ruined, now; there was no kind way to say it. And no matter what, they all had nightmares. Lizzy was a goddamn saint for working the night shifts—or maybe she only did that because she could no longer sleep in the dark?

There were things that they—she, Lizzy, Lt. Michelle, and the other nurses—did to help themselves cope with what was going on around them. Smoking was very popular, of course. She'd seen Lizzy go through an entire pack of cigarettes in one sitting. And sometimes it wasn't just cigs. As pretty nurses, she Lizzy had an easy time bumming joints off of the soldiers. Michelle was attractive, too, but sometimes the men were reluctant to help out a woman who was clearly of Asian decent. It pissed Michelle off and whenever it happened, she and Lizzy knew that they were in for a long-winded rant later that night. "What the hell is their problem?" she would demand to know. "I'm not some Goddamn Gook!" No one could blame Michelle for being upset; the unfairness and blatant racism of some of the soldiers was revolting at times. Luckily, poker nights were a good distraction, (the considerable amount of money she always lost to Michelle definitely helped to keep both of their minds off of things). Then there was flirting. With the disgusting attitudes of some of the men, Michelle couldn't always participate, but, in any case, she claimed that it wasn't for her as she already had a boyfriend back home—a sweet guy named Desmond that she wasn't willing to give up for anything. So, that left her and Lizzy. It wasn't that they were sluts—rarely did they actually sleep with any of the men—they were simply two extremely bored, unbelievably deprived, and very beautiful women who were in desperate need of some affection (or, at the very least, "a good fondling" as Michelle had teasingly put it).

It worked, for the most part, though there were still those nights when she could not sleep and those moments when, for no reason, she would begin to tremble all over. But nicotine, card games, and flirting helped, if only a little bit.

As she raced down the hallway, she could feel her heart pounding—beating so frantically that it hurt. Her legs were heavy with reluctance as she tried to push herself forward. Breathing was painful; there was too little air and her breath came in short, spiked gasps. She could see Lizzy running ahead of her, sandy ponytail bobbing about her head.

For some reason, her mind flashed on a memory of the other nurse complaining about having to wear a bra now because of all the sprinting she suddenly found herself doing. Apparently, back in the States, Lizzy hadn't needed to scurry around nearly as much, but now she did, and as a result, her tits bounced all over the place, creating a need to "strap them down", as the girl had so delicately put it. And this was something that, Lizzy had claimed, was a crime against nature.

She scrunched her nose, wondering why in the hell she was thinking about Captain Elizabeth Darling's tits.

_Well, they are pretty fabulous, I gotta say,_ she could practically hear the little minx taunt. That was one thing: Though ravaged by war like the rest of them, Lizzy was still and would always be a cocky little tease. Or a little cock tease, if you happened to be a soldier. Whatever the case, in an odd way, this was reassuring.

Because if she knew that Lizzy could stay whole, then they all could stay whole—even her.

**۞۞۞**

It was all a façade, and quite a comfortable one at that. It was just like slipping into an old, familiar pair of sneakers—ones that her grandmother always insisted she throw out because they were useless, but she kept them anyway, dragging them out whenever she needed them. While a mask would have been a better metaphor for describing a façade, it was too cliché for her. Besides, the sneakers idea was cute, in a way, and at this point in her life, she was willing to seize any amusements that passed her by.

"Lizzy," she heard someone order. Her head snapped up as she looked into Nancy's green eyes—a contrast to her own, dark brown ones but just as frightened. The other nurse was standing over the limp, bloody form of a fallen soldier and nodding her head in the direction of a second one. "Take care of that one over there. I've got to get this one's uniform off."

There was once a time when she would have made some suggestive remark about Nancy being so eager to remove a man's shirt. But when said man lay unconscious on a cot, covered in blood, green fatigues turning a sickening shade of black, and there was no way of telling where his injuries began and where they ended…nothing came to mind.

She gave a single nod and hurried to the side of the other man and attempted to undo his bootlaces. But it was strange: the more she struggled, the stiffer her fingers seemed to become. They were frantic in the agonizing numbness, wanting to move faster but constantly slipping on strings that were wet with blood.

_Hurry, hurry, please hurry!_ she urged herself desperately.

She looked down at her hands—small, white, delicate with blood seeping under her fingernails.

His laces were tied so tightly, the knots impossible to undo.

"Goddamn it!" she swore aloud as she lost her grip again. Looking back at Nancy, she shouted, "Gimme a scalpel!"

"Hang on!" Nancy pleaded, biting her lip as she cut away the last of her soldier's clothing.

"Jesus, Nancy!"

"Hold_ on!_" Two seconds later, the other nurse was thrusting a scalpel into her hands. In her haste to grab it, she nicked her palm but didn't feel it. Not wasting any time, she messily began sawing at the soldier's bootlaces.

Not thinking, tossing the blade aside, she gripped the boot tightly, dirt mixing with the blood on her hands as she gave a mighty tug.

The boot came off.

"Oh my God…"

Nancy was shouting at her.

"No time! Lizzy, _move!_"

"Oh my God, Nancy…his foot…"

"Just hurry and wrap it, Lizzy, please!"

His foot had come off.

It was inside the boot—in her hands, inside of his boot in her hands.

She began to tremble.

_Don't think, don't think, keep moving, don't think. Just move, don't think, whatever you do don't think! Don't! Think!_

She stared around her, seeing but not seeing, searching for something that was nowhere to be found. Then—suddenly—she saw Nancy. Their eyes met.

Her mouth fell open, moving on its own, and she whispered:

"_Help…I need somebody…_"

"We can still save him," Nancy said, trying to assure them both "We can sew it back on—yes, Lizzy, yes we _can_. Just move!"

"_Help,_" she gasped, louder this time. "_Not just anybody!_"

"Lizzy, come on," Nancy begged, panicked.

"_Help!_" she cried, pleading desperately with the other nurse."_You know I need someone!_"

And then she was screaming:

"_HELP!_"

She stood there, immobile, holding somebody's foot in her hands—little hands, nurse's hands that were supposed to heal and help these people—why weren't they helping?

Nancy was guiding her, gently moving her out of the way and taking the foot from her useless little hands. She let the other nurse take charge, all the while mumbling stupidly:

"_When I was younger…_"

"_So much younger than…_" Nancy echoed.

"…_so much younger than today…_"

"_You never needed…_"

Numbly, she shook her head. "_I never needed anybody's help in any way._"

"_Now?_" the other nurse asked.

"_But now those days are gone—_"

"_Those days are gone?_" Nancy repeated, bewildered.

"_I'm not so self-assured,_" she said, staring blankly ahead. "_Now I find I've changed my mind—I've opened up the doors._"

Her hand shot out on its own accord and she seized Nancy's arm in a death grip, locking eyes with the confused and frightened nurse.

"_Help me if you can, I'm feeling down!_

_And I do appreciate you being round—_

_Help me get my feet back on the ground!_

_Won't you please, please help me!_"

Nancy stared at her, clearly scared and unsure but also determined. The other nurse gave a brief nod and in that moment she knew that she could always count on Nancy. Her friend had been exactly where she was and during those times it was she, Lizzy, who had pulled her out of it, brought her back to reality and reminded her that they had a duty to uphold.

"Lizzy," Nancy said with astonishing calm, her skilled hands never stopping. "Lizzy, stay with me. C'mon, baby, it's okay. It'll all be okay. Just stay with me—shit," she muttered as she attempted to staunch the blood that was flowing freely from the soldier's stump of a leg. She looked up at her sharply. "Lizzy, go work on the soldier I had; he isn't as messed up as this one. Quickly, now!"

The words made her start and, suddenly, she snapped out of it. Partially. There was still the griping panic that made her limbs go numb and stole her breath away, but she was coherent, if only somewhat. Her job. Yes, she had a job to do. She was a nurse. She was supposed to help and standing around like a petrified child, all the while recanting about a past that was lost to her was _not helping_.

She moved without a thought, bringing a hand to her head as she shook it slowly, feeling disorientated but considerably more lucid than she had before.

Inhaling deeply, steeling herself, she looked down at the boy that Nancy had been tending to. The other girl had been right—he wasn't as bad as her soldier had been. None of his limbs were missing. At least, for now. He was covered in blood, making it nearly impossible to see if he had sustained any injuries to his arms or legs. But it didn't take her long to see where the real damage was—his abdomen and nearly his entire right side had been ripped to shreds by the blast that had taken out the entire unit.

Mechanically, she began to clean and dress the wounds.

"_And now my life has changed in oh so many ways._

_My independence seems to vanish in the haze…_"

She squeezed her eyes shut.

"_But every now and then I feel so insecure._

_I know that I just need you like I've never done before!_"

Opening them again, she motioned to a nurse close to her—a small, brown-haired thing who resembled herself entirely too much, and who was now looking just as lost as she had felt moments ago.

"_Help me if you can, I'm feeling down._

_And I do appreciate you being round._

_Help me get my feet back on the ground—_

_Won't you please, please help me?_"

The terrified woman gave a single nod of understanding.

"What do you need me to do, Captain?" she asked meekly.

"More bandages, and quickly," she ordered, carefully cleaning the boy's gaping wounds. The young nurse complied with excellent speed and together they two worked for what must have been hours, cleaning and dressing and reapplying and there was _so much blood_. She didn't know how much he had lost, how much they had sopped up, how many rags had been dirtied—her uniform (like so many others) was now stained with it. And the crisp, white fabric would not turn black like the men's fatigues but it would stay red, bright red and angry. Bleach would get the stains out, but the smell would still linger, the horrible stench of copper and illness that would bring a plethora of sickening memories.

Angrily she shook the thought away and forced her attention on what was happening _now_. Later would come eventually, and the past was unimportant. What mattered was here, _now_. This moment. This boy.

They patched him up.

His breathing was very shallow, but, amazingly, he was still alive. And he would live, she told herself firmly. He _would_.

She wanted to tell him that it would be all right, that things were just fine, that he had nothing to worry about—or did she simply want to hear those words herself? The boy was unconscious, after all. It wasn't like he could hear her—

"Ohhh…"

"Oh my God," she heard the younger nurse gasp. "Captain, he's—"

"I know," she said shakily. The boy's eyes were closed, but he was awake. "We need to talk to him, keep him with us. I mean…just…I don't know. Don't lose it on me, okay? I can't—"

The frightened nurse gave another timid nod and began speaking to the soldier.

"Um…I…C-can you hear me? My name is Eleanor—I'm a nurse?" She glanced up at her uncertainly. "You—you're okay, you're safe now."

The boy moaned again, his head turning weakly to the side, face pinched with pain.

She sucked in a low breath.

"Morphine," she said automatically, looking sternly at the other nurse. "Now. Quickly!"

The young girl gave a small jump before scurrying off in search of the narcotic. She was left to tend to the soldier, this poor boy who could not have been any older than herself. His face was streaked with dirt and blood but he looked like a child—so young and lost with a softness to him that made her want to cry. She wouldn't have pegged him for more than nineteen, maybe twenty years of age.

_Nineteen_, she thought bitterly. _Too young_.

"_When I was younger, so much younger than today,_

_I never needed anybody's help in any way._"

She sighed wistfully and wet a washcloth, gently wiping the boy's face clean.

"_But now those days are gone—I'm not so self-assured._"

A shivering little laugh escaped her as she remembered her own foolishness.

"_Now I find I've changed my mind and opened up the doors._"

She was so different, now—no longer the blithe, carefree young girl with bright eyes so full of energy and an open heart that made her feel lighter than air because she was in love and was loved and life was simply _good_. A lot could happen in a year, and, as fate would have it, a lot _had _happened. She was darker now, haunted by what she had seen, and while she had always had a bitter and sarcastic sense of humor, she was suddenly much more cynical and life was a lot less humorous.

But perhaps a part of her still remained, she thought as she washed away the last traces of dirt from the soldier's face. For even in her shattered state she hadn't failed to notice that the man that lay before her was very, _very_… Handsome didn't describe him. It simply didn't fit the way this boy looked. He was so…pretty. Even pale, sickly, and covered from the neck down with crusting blood, he was pretty. With delicate features—high cheekbones, soft and finely shaped lips, long lashes—even despite a few day's worth of stubble, he would have made a better girl. What's more, he would have made an _attractive _girl. Even his frame, while not exactly feminine, was very slight, made up of lean muscle. And bones, she saw upon closer observation. He was very thin with protruding ribs and hipbones. With a shadow of a smirk she wondered if this soldier had been on the same diet as she was—candy bars and cigarettes because the food that the army served was intolerable. If that was the case, then she couldn't blame him. However, such eating habits took a toll on one's body, seriously weakening the system—and this poor boy was in such a fragile state already.

"Captain?" It was the young nurse—Eleanor, she recalled—standing at her side with a needle and a vial in hand. The hesitant voice snapped her out of her miserable thoughts. She murmured her thanks, carefully taking the soldier's left arm and cleaning a space on the inside of his elbow. Taking the syringe and bottle from the girl, she inserted the tip of the needle into the top of the bottle, watching as the syringe slowly filled with the brilliant, blue liquid. Without a word, she injected the drug into the pretty soldier's veins.

The effect was instantaneous, almost frighteningly so. No sooner had the morphine entered his system than the boy began to relax, features smoothing over, painful lines and creases disappearing as he slipped off. He was even more beautiful like this, his face softer, calm with sleep.

She hadn't realized that she had been admiring the attractive young man until Eleanor's voice once again brought her back.

"Is there anything else, Captain?"

She glanced around and saw to her immense relief that the excitement of before had dissipated considerably. The air was still fraught with tension, and she would not soon forget the seriousness of her situation—men could still die, the boy lying before her now could still be lost. However, the nurses were noticeably calmer, their patients had been taken care off, things were under control—or as in-control as they were ever going to be.

Across from her, Eleanor was shifting nervously from foot to foot, clearly anxious to be dismissed. The poor kid must have been new, otherwise she would have known that it was never that easy. If she could have, she would have told the girl to leave, however, there was no telling if she would be needed later on. Therefore, Eleanor had to stay.

However, this did not mean that she was simply going to let the other nurse stand around with nothing to keep her mind from straying to much darker thoughts. She had to give her some task, however menial, keep her occupied…

"Check his dog tags," she heard herself order. "We need a name."

"Right, of course," Eleanor said quietly. She watched as the girl gently took the tags from around the soldier's neck and held them so gingerly in her hands, like she would a tiny bird, as if afraid that they might break.

"Sgt. Maxwell Carrigan, ma'am," she informed her, hesitantly running her finger over the name.

"Thanks, and you don't have to call me 'ma'am'—or 'Captain,'" she added as an after thought. "The first one makes me sound old and the second sounds hypocritical since I've never gotten along well with authority figures."

The girl smiled weakly, looking as though she wasn't sure if she should find this funny or not, but appearing to understand her dislike for both titles.

"What would you like me to call you, then?"

She sighed heavily.

"'Lizzy,' or 'Darling' if that's too informal for you."

Eleanor scrunched her nose in confusion.

"How is 'darling' more formal than 'Lizzy?'"

"It's my last name, honey."

Realization dawned and the girl actually turned pink with embarrassment.

"Oh…"

"Don't feel bad. When I first told Lt. Gardner—she's the tall, blonde one over there—my name, it took her ages to believe that it really was 'Darling' and that I wasn't just fucking with her." She went on, ignoring how the other nurse's eyes widened at the curse word. "Although, I guess I can understand why she didn't believe me. I just sorta have that air about me." _Or at least, I used to._ Her eyes trailed away until she was looking at the soldier on the bed.

"Are…are you okay, um, Lizzy?" Eleanor asked tentatively.

She knew without seeing that the other nurse wore a puzzled yet concerned expression on her face. Sweet kid. The girl didn't even know her and yet, here she was, almost beside herself with worry.

"Not really," she answered quietly, still gazing at the handsome, unconscious soldier. "D'you think he'll live?" she asked with quiet fear, her eyes suddenly meeting Eleanor's.

The girl looked taken aback by such a blunt and unexpected question and she fiddled with the tags in her hands.

"I-I hope so."

Briefly, she smiled, nodding faintly to herself.

"Yeah. Me too."

**۞۞۞**

When she had thought that Lizzy was staying whole, she hadn't quite meant 'whole' as in completely sound of mind. Upon meeting her for the first time she had known, then and there, that Lizzy Darling was nuts, out of her mind, a few cards short of a deck—one of those rebellious, liberal wackos that her parents had always warned her to stay far away from. But, crazy or not, Lizzy was harmless, taking her work very seriously, though she had always gotten the impression that the girl might have been a bit rowdier under different circumstances. Still though, while on duty, Lizzy was remarkably composed. So, by 'whole' she had meant that the other nurse was keeping it together far better than she, herself, was. But that evening's little episode had proved her wrong. Horribly, shockingly wrong. The kind of wrong that blew her mind and left her weak and shaking and desperately in need of something—anything that would take the edge away.

She was out of cigarettes. Sighing in frustration, she sat down on the edge of her cot, gritted her teeth, and tried to bear it.

Christ, she hadn't seen Lizzy freak out like that in ages… There had been several moments, back when they had first started. During their first major emergency, Lizzy had been lost—overwhelmed by the rush and panic of it all. She was an excellent nurse, yes, but she had never before been exposed to the kind of situations that she now faced on almost a daily, if not hourly basis. The girl wasn't used to the constant danger, the ever-present sound of bombs and gunshots in the distance. She had been completely unprepared to assist in amputation after amputation, insisting that the limbs could be saved if they just took the time. She had not expected the captain to shout back that there _was_ no time to waste, that they simply had to do what they could at _that moment_, hope for the best, and move on. Moving on was not something Lizzy did when patients were involved, though she had certainly tried. Once, a little Vietnamese girl had been rushed in with the entire left side of her face charred and burned beyond recognition and Lizzy had stood, rooted to the spot, unable to comprehend it.

"_She's a little girl, she's a little girl…_" she had whispered over and over again. Sgt. Henderson had eventually had to slap the other nurse to bring her back to her senses.

But that had been over a year ago, and Lizzy's panic attacks had lessened greatly since then. She shouldn't have been _that _affected by what had happened earlier. Granted, it wasn't every day that a man's foot came off with his boot—

_Oh God..._

She shuddered uncontrollably as the image entered her mind, the image of pretty, sylphlike Lizzy—who couldn't ever kill anything if she tried—standing there with a bloody, mangled foot clasped in both hands, her lovely face frozen in a look of shock and horror.

She had always known that Lizzy was scared—hell, all of them were scared. And for all her quick wit, easy smiles, and biting sarcasm, Lizzy wasn't very good at hiding it. The girl didn't understand death, and while she wasn't afraid of her own demise, seeing other people screaming, suffering, dying really cut into Lizzy's heart.

Plain and simple, Captain Darling loved beauty, unconsciously gravitating toward something just because it was pretty—even strange shit, sometimes, like a garish, orange silk scarf or that God-awful pair of striped toe socks. She was the kind of girl who hated things to be ugly—and where they were now was very, very ugly. The kind of deep-rooted ugly that Lizzy could not find beauty in, no matter how hard she searched.

And that realization…it had hit the girl hard. Worse yet, it had hit her without warning less than a week after she had arrived at the hospital. She knew that Lizzy had willingly signed up for this completely ignorant of how bad things really were. It was almost disgusting, thinking back on it now—of course, she had been no better, having been just as unaware when she had volunteered. And it was probably true for many others. None of them had really known what they were getting into. But at least they had had a choice, unlike the men. That was what really revolted her.

She shook her head, driving her thoughts back to Lizzy.

The other nurse hadn't had a shock like this in a while; maybe that was it. While things at the hospital never really quieted down, for the past few weeks there hadn't been nearly as much of a strain on the nurses' psyches. Then, a dozen or so soldiers were rushed in, all either dead or dying from an explosion, and all of the nurses had to jump to their feet, run around from ward to ward, stitching this, cleaning that, bandaging, sewing, amputating…

_Amputating..._ She thought of Lizzy and the foot again and closed her eyes. They had had to cut off both of that soldier's legs and sew his feet to his knees. It was possible that he would walk again, but more likely that he would contract gangrene. The thought made her want to weep. He was such a handsome boy with light brown hair and brown-green eyes… She had learned that his name was William and that he was a medic, ironically enough. When at last they had dismissed her, he had been asleep, heavily sedated and feeling nothing. The thought both reassured her and made her envious, for it was often that she wished to feel nothing, to be numb to the horrors around her, and to simply move and not think. Morphine was tempting and easily accessible. But she had always quelled those thoughts, firmly insisting that it wasn't worth it, no matter how much she craved oblivion.

Such thoughts had gone through Lizzy's mind as well, she knew. One day, she had caught her friend with a bottle of the drug, turning it over in her hands, watching its blue contents with a faraway expression on her face and a thoughtful look in her eyes. Then, as if coming to her senses, Lizzy had promptly returned the bottle to its shelf, turned on her heel, and left.

That had been reassuring, at least. As was the fact that, while she was aware that Lizzy liked to indulge in pot or booze every so often, she also knew that the other nurse had little desire to try more addicting substances. That wasn't to say that she hadn't, though the idea of being dependent on anything (material or otherwise) scared the hell of out Lizzy.

Ah, but there were some things that the girl had, whether unwillingly or unknowingly, become dependent on, and today Lizzy had once again proved that one of those things just happened to be named Lt. Nancy Gardner. It was sweet, knowing how close their friendship was, yet also frightening. If something happened to her, and God knew that something could, where would that leave Lizzy? She didn't want to think about it.

She didn't look up when she heard the door open, nor when she felt the cot sag as someone sat down beside her. A knee touched her own and she saw a flash of honey-colored hair as Lizzy dropped her head onto her shoulder. Without a word, she slipped an arm around the other nurse and held her close, resting her chin atop the sandy head.

"_Help me if you can, I'm feeling down,_" she heard the girl whisper, and without looking, she could see a pair of dark eyes staring at nothing.

"_And I do appreciate you being round._

_Help me, get my feet back on the ground._

_Won't you please, please help me? _

_Help me, help me…_"

**۞۞۞**

For once, I have nothing to say except for let me know what you think. Especially because this is Max/OFC, I'm worried about keeping everyone in-character and, of course, turning my OC into a Mary-Sue. Therefore, if things start to seem that way even slightly (or if the writing is just plain crappy), please, don't hesitate to tell me.

**Notes**

"Day Tripper" – one of my all-time favorite Beatles songs, not to mention one that I feel fits Lizzy perfectly—that is, aside from "Dizzy Miss Lizzy," of course. I'd originally intended to have this story begin with a scene of Max sitting on the roof of his apartment, overlooking the city and singing the beginning of "Day Tripper" as he thinks about Lizzy—reminiscent of how _Across the Universe _starts with Jude on a beach singing "Girl" while thinking of Lucy. And then the flashback (which is this entire story) begins. However, rather than do that, I chose to simply quote the song (i.e., I chose the lazier route, although I really do think that just having the lyrics is better than an actual, written scene. It leaves more to the imagination).

… gritty, all-around nasty, and tasted entirely of peanuts and nothing else – clearly, this one is going to be completely baffled by my Max's sporadic liking for all things peanut-flavored.

_Get back!_ – referencing the song "Get Back," of course. Funny, in a way, because her name was originally going to be 'Loretta' (because, as Max says in _Part-Tme Lover_, Lizzy says she's a woman but she's another man), but it didn't take long for me to realize that "Dizzy Miss Lizzy" was even more fitting of the character.

"_Nancy!_" – from "Rocky Racoon," though this one doesn't call herself 'Lil' even though her real name is 'Miguil.' Also, there just had to be a Nurse Nancy in reference to the children's books of the same title from way back in the day. Props to anyone who knows what I'm talking about.

As pretty nurses… - this is actually a subtle reference to the song "Penny Lane." The nurses in this story, while not flawlessly beautiful, are all attractive in their own way. This almost gives the illusion that they _are _flawless because people will look at them and think, "This girl is gorgeous—what problems could she possibly have?" when, in reality, the war as taken a serious toll on all of them. So, I suppose, it's somewhat symbolic of the idea that "nothing is real."

"_Help…I need somebody…_" – I actually think of this as being sort of like a dark version of Max's singing "With a Little Help from My Friends" because, really, it's almost the same situation: Lizzy is using song to express what her friends mean to her and just how much she needs them. They help her out, and by just being there for her, she can get through the war.

"_HELP!_" - for the record, jut because I feel like it needs to be said, I normally cannot stand to use capslock. It drives me crazy; I don't know why. However, for the sake of dramatic effect, it felt right using it here.

"…My name is Eleanor—I'm a nurse?" – "Eleanor Rigby," of course.

She wouldn't have pegged him for more than nineteen, maybe twenty years of age. – although, she's mistaken because I'm going to make my Max at least twenty-two for the simple reason that he can now drink and not worry about going through the hassle of using a fake ID. Although, wouldn't put it past Max to have used one until he finally turned twenty-one.

"Sgt. Maxwell Carrigan, ma'am," – and, unfortunately, this is the only mention of Max in this chapter. It's sad, I know, however, it needed to be done in order to introduce the nurses. Fear not, dear readers, for he plays a much bigger role in upcoming chapters.

…the brilliant, blue liquid – even though morphine is actually clear, if I'm not mistaken. Nonetheless, I decided to stick with blue and keep some of the surreal elements of the movie, which is the main reason why I've chosen to leave out a lot of medical terms even though I'm currently dating a male nurse and therefore have access to a walking medical encyclopedia/dictionary. :)

She had learned that his name was William… - yes, it's a subtle reference to the song "The Continuing Story of Bungalo Bill."

**Disclaimer****: **We already know what I would have done to _Across the Universe_ and it's characters if it belonged to me, so I think it's save to say that I don't own anything (except for any characters that weren't in the movie, obviously). Oh, and Jude is still Max's bitch no matter what, even though this isn't a slash fic.


	2. Revolution 9

**Chapter II**

_**Revolution 9**_

"_I like boys with strong convictions_

_And convicts with perfect diction,_

_Underdogs with good intentions,_

_Amputees with stamp collections,_

_Plywood skinboards ride the ocean;_

_Salty noses, suntan lotion,_

_Always seriously joking,_

_And rambunctiously soft-spoken._

_I like boys that like their mothers_

_And I have a thing for brothers,_

_But they always wait 'til we're under the covers_

_To say 'I'm sure glad we're not lovers.'_"

— Kimya Dawson, "So Nice, So Smart"

**۞۞۞**

Several days had passed and her pretty soldier had yet to wake. Worry flooded her system (but when didn't it, Here?), yet the knowledge that she had been administering regular dosages of morphine to the young man and that that was, in all likelihood, the reason for his unconscious state was somewhat soothing.

Still, he was niggling at her curiosity—a trait that she had thought had long ago been buried underneath a pile of blood, screams, and terror. Apparently not, for it had returned after a too-long absence and it wanted him to wake up. She wanted to talk to him, ask him how he was feeling, if he needed anything, if he was in any pain.

But the soldier was asleep and had been for the past three days.

Well…at least he was peaceful (she hoped).

Lately, she was always on duty in his wing at the hospital—and it was important to note that she hadn't volunteered; that was simply where Nurse Henderson had been stationing her. The older woman had obviously heard about her breakdown, so maybe that was the reasoning behind it. At the moment, this ward wasn't nearly as rushed and chaotic as some of the others. Maybe this was the Sergeant's way of keeping her busy and out of trouble. Which was bullshit and she wondered why in the hell they didn't just send her home already? She wouldn't have been ashamed—she would have loved to go home. She wasn't fit for this—and never had been—she wasn't stable.

Maybe it was because of the way things were handled Here. There were so many patients, and the way the head nurses dealt with all of the trauma was to tell the lower ranking girls that they simply needed to learn not to care about anyone. People were going to die—a lot of people. And so they had to make sure that they didn't become too sentimental, too choked up, too attached. And she…she didn't understand that—couldn't, actually. Weren't nurses supposed to help people? Fix the injured, save lives? They did still do all of those things, yes, but everything was so rushed. If one patient didn't look like he was going to pull through, then they would do what they could for him, but move on to focus on the ones that seemed like they had a chance.

It was, she guessed, a logical way of thinking—a sensible method for focusing on what was happening _now _and not what would happen, and certainly nothing that _had_ happened. The past was the past and it was best left forgotten. The future was always a day out of reach, and so why even bother worrying about it? What mattered was what they were doing at this very instant.

Really, it was very easy to see why they were told to think like this. She understood it. It was just that…she couldn't bring herself to actually do it. She was easily distracted—got too hung up on details and clung to stupid, childish things like concern for the welfare of everybody, not just the ones that had the potential to live. Foolish of her, really.

But she had made some effort not to get too attached to her patients. When they were asleep, she took care of them. When they were awake, she would answer their questions briskly and efficiently, take care of them, and then move on. Rarely did she bother to learn names anymore. They were just numbers to her, now. Numbers on a chart, running helter skelter down the page.

He was number nine.

Like all the rest, though, he had a name. Unlike all the rest, however, she knew what it was.

She hadn't exactly intended to learn it—it had been that cute little nurse, Eleanor. She had just wanted to distract the kid, and so she had asked her to check his tags and find out what his name was. And Eleanor, ever obedient, had done as she was told.

And as shitty as she was when it came to remembering names, she knew that she wouldn't forget his. He was attractive and she was shallow, and because of this she was attracted _to him_. Which was, aside from being typical of her, incredibly stupid as she didn't even know him and, if and when he finally awoke, he would probably turn out to be this sweet, thoughtful, kind, well-mannered, all-American good boy who loved his mother, respected his father, went to church every Sunday, never said anything rougher than 'Oh dear,' had probably joined the Army of his own accord, and sure as hell wasn't going to have sex before he was married and settled and set. Really, the perfect guy. Adorable and amusing, but not her type.

It wasn't that she didn't know a good thing when she had it—no, no, not at all. She knew _exactly _what to look for in a man. It was just that those qualities (ideal though they may have been) did not attract her. Granted, a little respect for her was nice and it would have been great if he bathed regularly and didn't chew with his mouth open. Other than that, though, she had a tendency to be drawn toward…assholes. Guys who lived on the edge and had bad attitudes; who, if they didn't already do it themselves, were cool with people who smoked and drank and just people in general because she couldn't stand racism (or didn't understand it). Guys who were loudmouthed but not obnoxiously so because their opinions actually had some merit to them; who bitched about her clothing but only because they were secretly jealous that they couldn't wear it themselves; who said fuck the establishment and the Man, screw those capitalist pigs; and who came up with conspiracy theories involving the government's using things like…cinnamon to lull everyone into a false sense of security. Oh yeah. That shit turned her on like a megawatt bulb.

She shook her head, pressing the heels of her palms to her eyes, all the while muttering to herself:

"Stupid, crazy bi—"

Then, suddenly, something caught her attention, something that made her breath catch and her eyes go wide.

He stirred. Lashes fluttered, and at last opened, revealing the prettiest eyes that she had ever seen. Sky of blue and sea of green—it was all there in his eyes.

**۞۞۞**

Honey-colored hair pulled back in a ponytail; big, dark eyes framed by long lashes; softly pouting lips; and a pale, heart-shaped face—maybe it was the morphine, maybe it was fever, or maybe it was the thick haze of sleep that still hung about his head…but she was beautiful—the most beautiful thing he had seen in a long time.

"Girl…" he whispered, voice slurred and breathless. "I like your face."

Instantly, he saw a smile pull at her lips.

"I could say the same thing about you," she replied in a soft Southern accent, tilting her head to one side as she studied him. "You're prettier than me—and I've always been the jealous type."

He blinked at her slowly, unable to take in everything that she was saying. Giving him a sympathetic smile, she patiently informed him that he was in the hospital, watching as his eyes looked around in confusion.

"What…"

"Explosion," she explained. "Shrapnel tore right through you. Be careful not to move."

He wanted to reply with a sarcastic 'Hadn't planned on it, sweetheart' but found that he hadn't the strength to. Distantly, his mind registered a dull, burning pain in his right side but it felt like it was miles away—too far for him to concentrate on it. Instead, he swallowed thickly, licking his lips, throat worn raw from screaming, dry and filled with sand from lack of—

"Water?" she offered.

God, yes. He closed his eyes, nodding his appreciation, sinking deeper into the crisp, sterile hospital pillows and edging closer toward what felt like oblivion when someone touched his shoulder. He jumped, eyes shot open and darting around, breath quickening, his heart tensing as his mind flew off to battlefields, gunshots, chaos, bloodshed…

But then he saw her, and it all came back.

She was wincing, her hand hovering awkwardly over his shoulder.

"Sorry," she whispered gently. "I just needed you to sit up."

He struggled to clear his throat—hell, to grasp anything that was going on right now—but the effort was in vain, as it only produced more mucus and left him feeling (how was it possible?) more drained than before. The burning in his side was suddenly much more apparent, throbbing dully—not enough to make him scream, but enough to remind him that it was still there and that it wasn't going away. But she was also there, and the feel of her cool hand on the back of his neck, slowly lifting his head, was a welcome distraction.

A cup was pressed to his lips (chapped, cracked, stiff with dried blood) and he was more than happy to let the cool, sweet liquid rush in. He let it fill his mouth, savoring it before swallowing, marveling at how it soothed his torn throat.

"Is…is that _clean?_" he asked in awe before taking another sip.

She shrugged.

"Probably cleaner than what you're used to."

And it was. The shit called water that they had been ordered to fill their canteens with had always been cloudy with dirt and sometimes even insects. It was thick and warm and he had sworn that he had felt even sicker and more dehydrated after drinking it. He shuddered at the memory, not wanting to think about anything like that ever again. Shit…he needed a distraction. Now. Right now. Something to take his mind off of…_everything_…

She leaned over him, adjusting his pillows, and he caught her scent—cigarettes, definitely cigarettes… She didn't look like a smoker, but she might have hung around with them. There was something sweet and fruity, too, like…apples, strawberries, peaches…perfume, maybe? And all of it was coated in the rich, heady aroma of honey. He breathed it in, allowing himself to become drunk on the fragrance. Damn…

"You smell good."

He must have said it out loud because a strange smile spread across her face. She looked quite pleased with herself.

"Don't let Nurse Henderson hear you say that," she informed him, sounding oddly triumphant. "She hates it whenever I wear perfume."

His brow furrowed in confusion.

"Why?"

She rolled her eyes.

"Says it reeks—that the fumes radiating off of me are apparently so potent that she gets dizzy if I just stroll by her."

He shook his head in disagreement, though quickly stopped as the action began to make him feel lightheaded.

"I like it."

"Well…" She dipped her head a little and grinned, looking flattered. "Thanks."

"What's your name?" he asked, his voice soft and curious.

"Captain-Nurse Darling. Either or."

"First name..?"

She pursed her lips, smirking a little.

"Lizzy." Then, as if suddenly remembering something, she said, "How're you feeling, by the way? Are you in any pain?"

_A world of hurt, honey_, he wanted but couldn't summon the energy to say, instead opting for a strained, "My side…a little."

She bit her lip, tipping her head to one side as she carefully pulled back the blankets that he hadn't even noticed were covering him until they were gone and he suddenly felt cold. Then, he saw it—a massive, white bandage that covered almost his entire torso. His stomach clenched with fear, and suddenly everything became all too real. What in the hell had happened?

"Lemme take a look," she was muttering as she slowly, gingerly began to peel the bandage away.

And out of nowhere he was met with the sight of his own mangled flesh—a frightening zigzag pattern of harsh, rust-colored stitches that crisscrossed over his bare, concave stomach, wrapping around his right side and up his back.

Eyes growing wide, he gasped and the pain seemed to increase tenfold, growing with each passing second. His breathing became more and more panicky as he tried to take all of this in—and failed.

What had happened? When had it happened? Why was he here? Was he going to die? It certainly felt like it, it hurt so much. He couldn't remember—it had been at sunset and the sky had been so red, as red as a strawberry. There had been so much smoke, blinding, suffocating…he couldn't see. He had just been shooting and shooting, screaming, firing at nothing and everything while everyone around him fell to the ground. He was going to die, he knew it, but no, he couldn't; he didn't want to die—he kept shooting and he had thought that someone was yelling at him, but who could tell over the gunshots and explosions? Then, the ground beneath him was shaking and suddenly moving and throwing him with it. He remembered clinging to his gun as if it was life, but after that...there was pain. Only pain.

"Sgt. Carrigan?" someone was saying. "Sgt. Carrigan?" Someone female and Southern.

Forcing his eyes open, he found himself face-to-face with pretty Nurse Darling—Lizzy—who had at some point rewrapped his bandage, hiding the horrors of his marred skin from view, and was now holding his hand, trying desperately to calm him.

Trembling violently, shaking his head, he begged of her, "D-don't call me that… Please, n-not that…"

Dark eyes wide with concern, she squeezed his hand tighter as he grew tense, his body racked with shock and pain.

"Okay, sweetie," she whispered soothingly. "What d'you want me to call you?"

He clenched his teeth, shivering all over, then, "_Max_," he gasped out finally just as his head hit the pillow. One last glimpse of her face before his eyes fell shut and there was nothing but blackness.

**۞۞۞**

"So, _mon Capitan_, I hear that your soldier boy is finally awake," Michelle trilled later that night, a pair of eyes as dark as sloes smirking at her from over her cards.

"Mm." She said nothing more on the matter, pretending to concentrate on her own hand—a two of Clubs, a Jack of Spades, five of Hearts, five of Diamonds, four of Diamonds…damn. Not an Ace in the bunch.

The black eyes narrowed, thin brows arching in surprise and suspicion.

"Your reaction disappoints me, Lizzy."

She sighed, feeling somewhat confined, as if the room was too small, which, actually, it was. Row after row of cot after cot, stretched across a long hallway with space to walk down each isle but little else. True, the room itself was spacious, but the orderliness of it all made it unbearably cramped at times.

It wasn't that she didn't love the other nurses dearly—hell, she hardly knew what she would have done without them. It was just that, right now, she would have much rather been alone (which made little sense, as she never wanted to be alone Here). Maybe it wasn't so much that she wanted to be by herself as she didn't want Michelle and Nancy bugging her ass about the soldier that she had been hovering over for almost a week. After seeing him like that—so lost and frightened, not knowing where he was or what was real…the last thing that she wanted to do was discuss it.

When she was a kid and had wanted to be alone with her thoughts, she would always climb up on the roof of her home in Savannah, Georgia. And everyone knew exactly where to find her, but they also knew better than to bother her. At home, 'Lizzy's on the roof' was a polite way of saying 'Leave her the fuck alone.' Of course, over Here things were never that simple.

"Well, what d'you want me to say?" she snapped at Michelle. "That we made red-hot, passionate love right there on the spot? That the moment his eyes opened, I fucked him sideways and senseless?"

She knew that she was being an insensitive bitch—not to mention a rather senseless dolt since the petit Asian girl was notoriously short-tempered and here she was, pushing her limits. However, frankly, aggravating people had never been a major concern of hers before, and now it just didn't matter anymore.

Sure enough, now thoroughly pissed, Michelle coolly replied, "Well, I wouldn't be surprised, considering how starved you are for sex."

"Forgive me," she retorted, her voice acidic, "but unlike you, I can only diddle myself so much before I have to screw something. I guess I just don't have your willpower."

"Or it could be that you're just a slu—"

"Okay, enough!" Nancy finally burst out in frustration. "Both of you, shut the hell up!"

In saying this, Nancy, peacemaker Nancy, sprung to her feet, arms raised in a pose reminiscent of Moses, standing between the two arguing nurses.

"Listen," she began, narrowing her eyes at them both, "we're all feeling a little tense at the moment—okay, fine," she admitted at their pointed looks. "We're all acting like we've just been dumped, are on our periods, and are out of chocolate all at the same time? Sound better? Anyway, it's understandable, especially now that the three of us are all on the Short-timer's Calendar. Yes, home is less than a few weeks away and I'm just as eager to leave this hellhole as you two are, but that doesn't give us the right to be total bitches to one another. Jesus, don't we get enough carrying on while we're on duty? Poker nights are supposed to be _relaxing_, remember? But, in case neither of you realized it, watching you two go at each other's throats _isn't _relaxing!"

Ashamed, she and Michelle both glanced around awkwardly, looking everywhere but at Nancy and each other. An uncomfortable silence filled the air, mingling with the smoke from their cigarettes until it was finally broken by Nancy's heavy sigh.

"So…what happened to make both of you so pissy tonight? Liz? Things with soldier boy not go as you'd hoped?"

She shook her head. "Eh…Not exactly what I'd been expecting, let's put it like that. Although, that doesn't make a lot of sense, since I wasn't really expecting anything in particular?" She scrunched her nose, confused at herself.

Nancy smirked a little.

"No offence, hon, but not much that comes out of your mouth ever _does _make a lot of sense."

She flipped her off—admittedly, not her best retort, but she had had a long day (a weak excuse, since they were all long, but she wasn't in the mood to argue with anyone, let alone herself).

In response to the one-finger salute, Nancy just rolled her eyes and continued.

"So, what happened? I mean, what's he like besides not what you were and/or were not expecting?"

"Well…he's fucked up, I can tell ya that much."

"War fucked up or naturally fucked up like you?" Michelle asked innocently.

"Ah, for your information, dearie, I'm _both_," she responded, almost disgusted by how lightly she was able to comment on her mental state. Sighing, rubbed the bridge of her nose. "And I think he is, too."

"Shit," Nancy remarked. "Sounds like just your type."

"So, what'd he say?" Michelle wanted to know.

Frowning slightly, she picked at the hem of her uniform.

"Stuff." At the sighs from the other nurses, she elaborated: "He said he thinks I'm pretty…and that I smelled good."

Michelle's eyebrows shot up and disappeared into her thick bangs.

"You _smelled_ good? That's…a little creepy."

She scowled, feeling slightly offended.

"I _like _it when guys say I smell good."

"It's why she wears so much perfume," Nancy laughed quietly. "That, and she gets a kick outta pissing Sgt. Henderson off."

"_That_," she added pointedly, "and the fact that I think our patients would want to smell something nice after so many months of smelling nothing but smoke, gunpowder, blood, and other…unpleasantries."

"True," Nancy murmured quietly as Michelle nodded in agreement before they all fell silent once again, unsure of what to say next.

This time, she was the one who shattered the dark uneasiness.

"So, Michelle," she proposed, looking intently at the other girl. "What crawled up your ass today that's got you aggravated?"

The pretty Asian girl snorted, rolling her eyes.

"The usual. Lousy racists, patients hallucinating and thinking I'm gonna kill them. Actually, it was pretty much a normal day for me."

"Aw, honey…" Nancy cooed sympathetically, reaching out to embrace her friend.

"Got a letter from my boyfriend, though," Michelle remembered, brightening slightly. "I haven't read it yet."

"Well, get it out! Let's hear what good ol' Desmond has to say," she encouraged, pleased as she watched Michelle bite her lower lip and grin, turning around to rummage through her trunk. She emerged several seconds later, letter in hand.

Smiling as well, she and Nancy shared a glance as they shifted so that they were sitting behind Michelle, reading over her shoulder.

"I love your boyfriend," Nancy said with a slightly dreamy air. "He always writes the sweetest things… What's it say?"

Michelle's face seemed to light up as she read her letter aloud.

"'_Michelle, ma belle…_

_These are words that go together well,_

_My Michelle._'"

Wrapped up in Desmond's words of love, all three girls found themselves overcome by the unexpected euphoria that always came with a letter addressed to Michelle. Smiling faintly to themselves, they continued to read together.

"'_Michelle, ma belle,_

_Sont les mots qui vont trés bien ensemble,_

_Trés bien ensemble._'"

"What's with French?" she asked, giving her friend a peculiar look.

"It's romantic!" Michelle protested, swatting at her.

Meanwhile, Nancy ignored them both:

"'_I love you, I love you, I love you,_'" the nurse read over and over again, her green eyes shining. "'_That's all I want to say. Until I find a way, I will say the only words I know that you'll understand—_'"

"'_Michelle_,'" she cut in, snatching the letter away and grinning widely at the girl in question, "'_ma belle: Sont les mots qui vont trés bien ensemble, trés bien ensemble._'"

Giggling, Michelle fell back on her cot, clearly happy to let her friends finish the letter for her.

"'_I need to, I need to, I need to…_

_I need to make you see…_

_Oh, what you mean to me._

_Until I do, I'm hoping you will_

_Know what I mean._'"

"'_I love you…_'" they both crooned softly, batting their eyelashes and Michelle blushed, covering her now bright-pink face in embarrassment.

But she shook her head determinedly, reaching out and tugging the other girl's hands away. Sitting up and clutching her heart dramatically, not caring if she looked like an idiot, she declared passionately:

"'_I want you, I want you, I want you!_'"

She looked at her pointedly, nodding.

"'_I think you know by now,_

_I'll get to you somehow._

_Until I do, I'm telling you so_

_You'll understand._'"

Reaching down, they each took one of Michelle's hands and pulled her to her feet, spinning her around and laughing all the while, swept away to better places by the rare sweetness that moment gave them.

"'_Michelle,_'" both she and Nancy chimed, "'_ma belle: __Sont les mots qui vont trés bien ensemble, trés bien ensemble._'"

Finishing grandly, all three nurses sat down on Michelle's cot, she and Nancy resting their chins on each of the other girl's tiny shoulders, the letter held up between the three of them.

"'_I will say the only words I know_

_That you'll understand…_'"

And all three girls smiled to themselves as they read the last line:

"'_My Michelle._'"

**۞۞۞**

Did the ending feel a little rushed to anyone? Or is it just me? As always, don't hesitate to let me know what you think. :-)

**Notes**

She wanted to talk to him, ask him how he was feeling – this sort of reminds me of a little kid who doesn't understand that the reason why their mom or dad doesn't want to play with them right after they get home from work is because they've had a long day and they're tired. In this way, Lizzy is almost like a child.

He was number nine. – I feel somewhat accomplished knowing that I managed to reference the song "Revolution 9." Hopefully it (as well as all of the other refs) didn't feel too forced or artificial.

He was attractive and she was shallow, and because of this she was attracted _to him_. – that, and it's love at first sight because this is an AtU fic where stuff like that happens all the time and it's totally believable. :D

…she couldn't stand racism (or didn't understand it). – remember this, because it comes up again later on.

…conspiracy theories involving the government's using things like…cinnamon to lull everyone into a false sense of security. – okay, I must confess that this is somewhat of an inside joke, although the people who have read my stories for the _Once Upon a Time in Mexico _fandom might recall and therefore understand this. Basically, it's a semi-serious theory that I came up with several years ago for an informative presentation for an English class. The general idea is that, if you look around you, cinnamon is used in practically everything—candles, air freshener, breakfast products, deserts…everything that people consider warm and comforting—stuff that makes them feel safe because it reminds them of home. My "theory" was that cinnamon is, in fact, a drug that is infused by the government in a ploy to, as Lizzy says, lull us all into a false sense of security, to make us believe that everything is okay while actually distracting us from the real problems at hand such as the economy, the environment, corporate takeovers, etc. For example, there are so many breakfast products that use cinnamon—cinnamon rolls, Cinnamon Toast Crunch, Apple Jacks, plain old cinnamon toast… Why do you think that they say that breakfast is the most important meal of the day? It doesn't have anything to do with being healthy or helping you stay focused in school or anything—it's all about the cinnamon. So, as far as this story goes, while I was writing this part of _Here_, a friend of mine suddenly brought up the topic of the cinnamon conspiracy, and the next thing I knew, I was making a reference to it in my writing. I have this weird knack for being able to work my ADD to my advantage sometimes.

Sky of blue and sea of green – and I'm also pleased that I was able to fit a "Yellow Submarine" reference into the story, too, as it's one of my favorite Beatles' songs.

…the most beautiful thing he had seen in a long time. – okay, number one: Let's face it, Max is shallow and therefore most likely wouldn't be attracted to a girl just because he likes her personality alone, so this is enough reason to make Lizzy attractive. Number two: (and this is actually my main reason) Max has been at war for months and hasn't seen anything except for death and destruction everywhere he turns, so when he finally wakes up after being injured and the first thing he sees is a cute girl, of course he's going to think she's the most beautiful woman in the world. But that's just my logic and hopefully also a way of saving Lizzy from being a flawlessly gorgeous Mary-Sue.

"Girl…I like your face." – quoted from the song "Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da."

…the feel of her cool hand…was a welcome distraction. –you will learn that Lizzy as a whole is a welcome distraction for Max. And, as strange as it may sound, I don't mean that in a sexual way.

"…she gets dizzy if I just stroll by her." – which makes sense, since it would seem that Miss Lizzy has the uncanny ability to make people dizzy without even trying. But _especially _when she does the stroll. ;-)

…a massive, white bandage that covered almost his entire torso. – yes, I'm using my artistic license and tweeking a few things. Although, in the movie, we never learn if Max was injured anywhere other than his head, so I'm not sure how much of this is tweeking and not just me being creative. Also, the head injury. At this point, my Max doesn't have one. It comes later on and all I will say about it is that it is _kind of _Lizzy's fault but not really. You'll see.

Short-timer's Calendar – using Army terminology, a short-timer is a person with thirty days or less left before DEROS, which is the rotation date from their overseas station. Basically, Nancy is saying that she, Lizzy, and Michelle have so little time left in 'Nam that they've begun to mark it off on a calendar, counting the days until they can all go home.

"Well, get it out! Let's hear what good ol' Desmond has to say," – wow, two "Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da" refs in one chapter.

"'_Michelle, ma belle…_'" – for the story, I actually imagine the song's tempo being just a bit faster than the original version's just because it feels like it fits how light and upbeat the girls are trying to make the mood.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing save for the pretty nurses, but I imagine that everybody knows that by now.


	3. Misery

**Chapter III**

_**Misery**_

**Note****:** I hesitate to label it a 'filler chapter' because, while it may seem rather filler-y and while there really aren't any key plot points in it, it _is _imperative to the plot. If that makes any sense. Whatever the case may be, enjoy nonetheless!

**۞۞۞**

He wasn't stable enough, they had said, to go home. Something about any movement at this point, with him in his current condition, could do further damage. He was too weak, had lost too much blood, his injuries were far too serious…

Shrapnel had torn through his side, they had said, taken out a good piece of him, drained him nearly entirely of blood. He couldn't be moved. Couldn't go home. Not yet. Even though that was what he really needed—to go back home to his family, to see Jude, to see Lucy, to see everyone.

Dark and bitter, he knew that that wasn't going to happen any time soon. Despite the fact that he had nearly been torn in half, he wasn't allowed to go home yet. Instead, he was being forced to remain Here, in this white, aseptic, version Limbo, unfit to be moved until further notice.

_The world is treating me bad… Misery…_

He shivered a little, clutching the sheets tightly, willing himself not to break down.

_I'm the kind of guy_

_Who never used to cry._

_The world is treating me bad... Misery…_

If Lucy were here, she would hold his hand, whispering false words of assurance more to herself than to him. And it would break his heart to see his little sister so upset. Because of him.

_I've lost her now for sure..._

_I won't see her no more…_

_It's gonna be a drag... Misery…_

Prudence would light up the room with her soft smile and laugh quietly, though her eyes would be bright with unshed tears.

_I'll remember all the little things we've done…_

_Can't she see she'll always be the only one, only one…_

Humming softly, Sadie would lean over and kiss his hair.

_Send her back to me,_

'_Cos everyone can see_

_Without her I will be in misery…_

And JoJo, as always, would be at her side, gripping his shoulder comfortingly and telling him to stay strong. In a way, maybe, this would reassure him, because the man knew what he was going through.

_I'll remember all the little things we've done…_

_She'll remember and she'll miss her only one, lonely one…_

Then, there would be Jude. Incredible, wonderful Jude, his best friend, who could make him feel better just by smiling—hell, just by being there. The guy was just talented like that, affective in a way that nobody else was.

_Send her back to me,_

'_Cos everyone can see_

_Without her I will be in misery…_

_In misery…_

_My misery…_

But Lizzy. She _was _Here. With him. And she, amazingly, could do all of these things, everything that his friends would do, everything that he needed. She would hold his hand and stroke his hair, sing softly and murmur little nothings… And he could have sworn that, once, when she looked at him, she seemed ready to cry. She just wouldn't let herself.

As far as distractions went, Lizzy was by far one of the best ones he had ever had. Better than he could have asked for, to be honest.

But still.

It was heartless of him to think it, but Lizzy was only a substitute.

More than anything, he wanted to go home, to get back to where he once belonged, back with everyone he loved.

He couldn't go home.

But he would, one of the nurses had told him, nodding their assurance. He liked them, the nurses. A countless number had tended to him, but there were only three that he could remember. It wasn't because they were the prettiest—though that helped—or because they were the ones that he saw the most. There was something in them, one characteristic that was distinct to each girl, that reminded him of home.

While it was clear that Michelle was of Asian descent, but it was her sweet, soft-spoken nature that reminded him of Prudence. Though, granted, he couldn't even imagine dear Prudence's temper flaring up the way Michelle's had the tendency to do. Although, really, he couldn't blame her for being angry. Tensions were always high, Here, and the fact that several of the other soldiers were less than civil toward the petite Asian nurse didn't help matters. She liked him, he thought, because he had always made it clear that he didn't give a shit about things like ethnicity.

Nancy was another one. Tall, slender, and green-eyed with strawberry blonde hair, she was hard to read at times. Like most nurses, she was in the business because she cared too damn much. Though at times it seemed that, like only a few of the nurses, Nancy needed someone to care for her. So wrapped up in concerning herself with the welfare of others, he wondered if she realized this. She reminded him of Lucy.

Then, there was Lizzy. Lizzy, Lizzy, Lizzy. She made him think of Lucy, too, even though she really wasn't anything like his sister. More than anything, it was the growing sense of protectiveness that he felt toward

Lizzy that he related to his sister. The fact that he never, ever wanted Luce to be over Here, to see the things that he had seen—he never wanted any of that for Lizzy, either. But the problem was that she _was_ Here, and she _had_ seen such terrible things. He wasn't sure if he would ever admit it out loud, but it broke his heart to think of it.

He only had an idea as to what Lizzy had been like before all of this, and a part of him was thankful for that. He wasn't sure if he would have wanted to have known her and then have to see the person that she was now: Exhausted, cynical, and constantly on the verge of losing it—but only when she was around him, it seemed. Then she felt safe to let go a little.

She wasn't always a nervous wreck, though. Usually she talked to him, kept his mind away from the dark reality of the world with questions about his family, about New York (she seemed very intrigued) as well as stories about her own life, her family and friends. Lizzy was a very good distraction and, for once, it wasn't simply because she was pretty.

**۞۞۞**

"Lizzy…" he gasped weakly. "Help…"

He would always marvel at how quickly she was able to move, for he hadn't so much as blinked and there she was, at his side.

"What is it, sweetie?" she asked at once, eyes bright with concern as she touched his hand.

"I…I don't know…Something's wrong…My side hurts…"

"How bad? Like, is it a burning pain or nauseating or—"

"Burning," he said, pressing a hand to his waist, "but I feel really sick, like…like I'm being torn apart…"

"It's okay," she said quietly. "I get it." Cool fingers trailed across his burning forehead. "Shit…" he heard her mutter as she reached out to take his wrist. "Your pulse is a little slow…"

"What's wrong..?" He wasn't sure if he wanted to know.

"Nothing."

Confused, he began to panic, his breathing quickening.

"You're fine, baby, really," she tried to pacify him. "It's all in your head."

"But isn't my pulse fucked up?" he argued desperately because this wasn't right; there was something wrong—there had to be—and she couldn't see it. "Couldn't…couldn't that mean I've relapsed or something?"

"With as much blood as you've lost, it's natural for your heart rate to be slower—"

"What if it's infected?" he cut in, "or, I mean…" He looked up at her helplessly.

She thought for a moment. That was something else he liked about Lizzy: While most of the other nurses waved his concerns off as mere paranoia (and maybe it was), she at least listened to him and took everything into consideration, even if she knew that he was being ridiculous.

"It might be infected—maybe," she warned. "Though I don't think it is. I'll take a look, though." Waiting for his nod of confirmation, she slipped an arm behind his shoulders to help him sit up. He inhaled sharply, vision going blurry with pain at the sudden movement.

Small, dainty hands moving carefully to peal away the bandages around his torso, and he closed his eyes, not wanting to see the zigzag wound that stretched across his abdomen.

"You're fine," he heard her say again. She had waited until she'd finished rewrapping his bandage before speaking, and now her hand gently cupped his face.

"What?" he asked blearily, lashes fluttering.

"It isn't infected; I checked. And you haven't had a relapse." Her thumb ghosted over his cheek. "With an injury as severe as yours, it's understandable for you to be in a state of shock, and if that's the case, then sometimes the mind can sort of trick the body into thinking that it hurts, even if it doesn't. It's called 'phantom pain.'"

"But can't you give me any drugs to make it go away?" he whined, like a child, looking up at her desperately.

She was silent.

"Liz?"

"You just had an injection of morphine a few hours ago," she said sharply, suddenly. "It's too soon for another dose."

That was another thing about Lizzy: As a nurse, she was determined to help people, to take care of the sick and injured. For her, it was pure torture to watch anything suffer and, in a strange, almost perverse sort of way he liked to think that it was especially terrible for her to see him in pain. Yet despite everything, she would sooner put him through an even greater amount of agony if it meant saving his life in the future.

"So…" He swallowed hard, not really ready to believe this. "So, I'm gonna keep feeling it, then?"

He had to give her credit—she couldn't bring herself to answer his question, but she never looked away. The sadness lingering in her eyes said enough.

Still, it was all so difficult to process…

"But…" He looked at her, confused. "But it _hurts_."

A frown creased her forehead, pulled her lips taunt, giving her a hard, ugly look that didn't suit her. She wasn't glaring at him, or at anything at all. But, no, that wasn't right; her eyes were definitely fixed on something. And he found himself realizing, amidst the throes of searing pain that still engulfed him, that if Lizzy could glare at herself, she would. She hated herself. Cute, sweet, quirky Miss Lizzy who he liked better than any of the other nurses hated herself because she couldn't help him as much as she wished she could.

He didn't know what to say. It hurt so much…

"If it's really that bad, I can numb the area, but that's about all—"

"Liz," he cut in, slightly out of breath once he'd finally found his voice. "I don't care, but just…don't leave, okay? Please…don't leave."

**۞۞۞**

She wasn't sick.

She wasn't a sadistic person, she wasn't being cruel. She was trying to _help_. She was doing them a favor by not giving in to them every time they asked, no matter how much pain they were in, no matter how much they begged. It was better for them. It really was.

Didn't they understand that morphine was highly addictive? They could become mindless drones, trapped in a phantom world where there was no pain, there was no suffering, no gunshots, no screams in the night—wandering in a place where they could finally be free from the ghosts and demons that haunted them.

It sounded wonderful.

But, no, damnit, what about the people who cared for them? Their friends, their families? They were the ones who would truly suffer when their soldier returned home, not a broken version of who he once was, but a blankly gazing zombie, a hopeless addict, lost to something far simpler than war.

She had never liked the thought of being dependant on anything, not even people and especially not substances.

They didn't deserve it. Their families didn't deserve it. Fuck it, she had vowed long ago; she wouldn't give in. She would stick to the routine and give them their doses as scheduled. No matter how much they begged.

It had never been easy.

It had only gotten harder when things became personal. After she met Max.

She liked him too much and he liked her, and normally she would have been more than willing to throw caution into the wind and happily launch into _something_, some kind of a relationship, be it just sex or something more. And…she _did_ do that. She had let it happen. She allowed herself to grow attached to him, flirted with him, talked to him, accepted the fact that he was the patient that worried her the most. There had been no holding back, no reluctance—she had never seen the sense in that.

_If you want something, why not take it? _ had always been her thinking. _You only live once._

And she wanted Max, although she couldn't exactly _have _him—anything too physical at this point would probably kill him (and, sadly, that was not an exaggeration). But she was with him as often as she could. And what was nice about that, the thing that was really great was that he seemed to want her to be with him. However, she wouldn't let herself read too deeply into that, because nobody wanted to be alone Here. And, besides, the only reason Max seemed to like her so much was probably just because she was the first person he saw when he finally regained consciousness.

Still…that thought didn't make it any easier to deprive him of anything. Especially because Max would beg and he would cry and he would plead with her to make the demons go away, and she would hear herself telling him again and again that she couldn't, not yet, just another hour, just one more hour.

These were the things that she told him.

He didn't need it, not really, he only _thought _that he did, but it was too soon, too early—his next dosage wasn't to be administered for another hour; he could make it, it wasn't that bad—it really wasn't—it was all in his head.

This was what she told herself.

Neither one of them found any comfort in the words. For him, the only source of comfort was the blessed unconsciousness brought on by morphine. For her, it was the certainty that he was finally peaceful, unable to feel a thing.

Like now, but a few seconds after his dose had been administered. Hands folded lightly over his waist, chest gently rising and falling, he slept, thinking nothing, feeling nothing.

"_He's a real nowhere man,_

_Sitting in his nowhere land,_

_Making all his nowhere plans for nobody…_"

"Oh, hon, I know how you feel," she heard Nancy sigh from behind her. A hand reached out and touched her shoulder.

"_Doesn't have a point of view,_

_Knows not where he's going to_."

Scoffing quietly at Nancy's words, she turned at looked at the other girl, posing the question: "_Isn't he a bit like you and me?_"

The blonde shook her head, green eyes downcast, thoughtful.

"Sometimes I wonder that, myself."

"_Nowhere Man, please listen:_

_You don't know what you're missing._

_Nowhere Man, the world is at your command._"

With a weary sigh, she turned back to Max, trailing ghostly, thin fingers across his cheek. He didn't stir, merely stared, the powerful drug having already taken control.

"_He's as blind as he can be,_

_Just sees what he wants to see._

_Nowhere Man can you see me at all?_"

Gentle Nancy took the syringe from her numb hands, laying it aside before pulling her to her feet.

"C'mon, sugar. I know he's pretty, but there are other guys that need us."

"Yeah. I know." She was resigned, turning to leave, but not before taking one of Max's hands and bringing it to her lips.

"_Nowhere Man, don't worry._

_Take your time, don't hurry._

_Leave it all till somebody else lends you a hand._"

It was stupid, because it wasn't as if he could hear her or was even aware of her presence. She wished that Sgt. Henderson would let them wear lipstick, that way at least a part of her would have been left with him, a small, telling mark for when Max woke up. But makeup was considered impractical, and so he would never know that her lips had touched his hand. But she did it anyway, knowing that she would have felt guilty for not saying goodbye.

"_Doesn't have a point of view,_

_Knows not where he's going to—_

_Isn't he a bit like you and me?_"

"I hate this shit. I really do," she said, picking up the vial of morphine.

"Me too," Nancy sighed. "Bet it's great, though."

"Yeah."

"_Nowhere Man, please listen:_

_You don't know what you're missing._

_Nowhere Man, the world is at your command._"

Unable to help herself, she cast one final glance back at Max. He hadn't moved.

"_He's a real Nowhere Man,_

_Sitting in his nowhere land…_"

Silently, Nancy slipped an arm around her shoulders and led her away, both of them whispering:

"_Making all his nowhere plans for nobody…_

_Making all his nowhere plans for nobody…_

_Making all his nowhere plans for nobody._"

**۞۞۞**

Wow, only ten pages. That seems very strange, especially since the first two chapters have been at least fourteen pages long, but at the same time, I don't think that there is anything else that I would want to include in this particular installment.

**Notes****:**

"Misery" – I imagine that this song would need to be slowed down a lot in order to really work for the story.

It hurt so much… - I love the ambiguity in this line, because you can't tell if he's talking about the physical pain that he's in, or the emotional pain that he feels for Lizzy. It's probably a little bit of both.

She liked him too much and he liked her – reference to the song "You Like Me Too Much."

…anything too physical at this point would probably kill him – although something tells me that Max would be perfectly all right if he had literally been fucked to death. ;-)


	4. Wild Honey Pie

**Chapter IV**

_**Wild Honey Pie**_

**Note****:** Because there needs to be a chapter that not only establishes but also cements a friendship between Max and Lizzy, otherwise I think that the story would fall apart. Or, at least, be less believable. Much of this is only-slightly-depressing-somewhat-comic relief (because there needs to be a break from the utterly angst-ridden stuff), though there are a few scenes that are a little sad. Also, you will find that it is mostly dialogue and very little action, which is something I have always wanted to try. I think that it helps the chapter move faster and more fluidly, and _that _reinforces what I'm going for: a chapter made up of a series of short but informative scenes that could take place in one day, several days…it's up to the readers. So, let me know what you think. :-)

**۞۞۞**

"So where are you from, anyway?"

"Georgia."

"No kidding? I would've pegged you for a Texas girl."

She snorted, rolling her dark eyes skyward.

"Please. I am neither tan nor blonde enough to be a Texan. Though I do have the boobs for it."

"Oh, absolutely," he agreed, nodding enthusiastically. "I mean, that goes without saying."

She smiled a little, pretending to examine her fingernails.

"What part of Georgia?" he ventured further.

"Well, Savannah, originally. But then, after graduating high school, I moved to New Orleans, Louisiana." She shook her head, eyes bright with memories. "It was wild."

"How'd your parents take that?"

"Well, they didn't really have much to say about it," she replied casually. "They died when I was seven, so…"

His eyes widened a fraction and he suddenly felt like a total prick for asking, which was stupid because, really, it wasn't like he had known that he was about to bring up such a sensitive subject. But this was one of those things that made him feel uncomfortable, even though it really shouldn't have.

"Shit, I'm sorry, y'know—"

But Lizzy just shook her head, waving him off as if it were nothing.

"Don't be. I mean, you couldn't have known. And besides, it's not like I really knew them, anyway, so I wasn't all that bothered by it. My oldest brother, Chuck, though…he was." Her eyes grew cloudy and he sensed that she was looking at something that was far away. "He, um, he was ten when it happened, so he'd already had a decade with them." She picked at the dried blood beneath her nails. "He's always been protective of Dave and me—Dave, he's my other brother; he's only a year older than me—but, uh…but Chuck, I think, had to grow up faster than he wanted to, which isn't right, and I kind a wish he didn't feel that way…but he does, and there's no changing that." She smiled slightly. "It's funny, but I guess he's still like a kid in some ways. He's stubborn, he gets pissy when things don't go his way…"

"You sound like my sister," he remarked, and he smirked a little, thinking of Lucy.

"Talking about you?" she guessed.

"Yeah…only, in addition to being stubborn and pissy, I also watch cartoons, pull my little sister's hair, _and _eat Cap'n Crunch."

She wrinkled her nose. "Ew, Cap'n Crunch?"

"Yeah," he replied, taking offence.

"_Why?_"

"What—?"

"Froot Loops are like, _so _much better."

"Babe, you're crazy."

"At least I have taste buds," she snorted. "Cap'n Crunch, honestly…"

"Hey, it's _awesome_, and I wish I had a big bowl of it now so that I could eat it in front of you. I bet you'd cringe."

"I would," she admitted at once. "That shit is _nasty_—it shreds the roof of your mouth!"

"No it doesn—well, okay, yeah, it does, but it still tastes great!"

Confounded, Lizzy huffed, tossing her head snootily.

"I don't think we can be friends, now."

**۞۞۞**

"You grew up with your _grandparents?_ That sucks."

"Yeah, you'd think that," Lizzy replied, "but my grandparents are actually these eccentric liberals who are all for free-thinking and individualism and all that shit."

"Really," he stated, not believing her.

"Mm." She waved her little hand around vaguely, searching for words. "Mimi—she doesn't like to be called 'Grandma' cuz she thinks it makes her sound old—she's into meditation and tai chi and the rest of that New Age stuff because she's a firm believer in 'stress equals age,' so she's totally cool with living life the way you want it—within reason," she added with a roll of her eyes. "It's like, she loves us, but she doesn't want to worry too much cuz it causes wrinkles and because she doesn't believe in telling us how to live.

"And then Grandaddy's a shrink, so he's like completely fascinated by the way we all act—like Dave. He's a friggin' genius, could've been a doctor or a lawyer or a business executive…but he wants to be a photographer—not that he isn't amazing at that, too, but…"

"And I'm guessing that pissed Grandaddy off right away?"

"Oh, no," Lizzy said, much to his surprise. "No, he doesn't mind as long as Dave's happy. He was just curious as to what could make a science and math guy like Dave want to go into photography."

"Man, my parents would flip_ shit _if I did something like that—and I did, which means that they did." He smirked.

"What did you do?" she demanded at once.

One thing that he had realized early on about Lizzy was that she suffered from irrepressible curiosity. Some would call her nosey, but he didn't mind. If anything, he kind of liked it.

Sinking deeper into the pillows, he began to tell her about New York.

**۞۞۞**

"What's New Orleans like? I've always wanted to go there, check out Mardi Gras, y'know?"

"Why am I not surprised?" She rolled her eyes, but smiled. "Seriously, though, I can't blame you. Mardi Gras is awesome."

"Really?"

"Yeah!" She nodded enthusiastically. "I mean, who wouldn't love a celebration where everyone's acting crazy and having a great time, there's never enough booze, and people give me beads to take my top off."

He sat up a little, daring to hope.

"Are you saying…" he began slowly, "that you have no problem flashing your tatas in public?"

"Well, what kind of stripper would I be if I did?" She smirked. "Besides, if it were legal for me to walk around topless, I totally would. But, since it's not, I have to settle for going braless."

No way. Unbelievable. This was all too much. Everything was happening at once—there were so many wonderful bits of knowledge entering his mind right now, and all of them involved Lizzy's tits. He felt overwhelmed (not to mention aroused).

"Wait—_stripper?_"

She shrugged. "Had to make a living some way, and there was this placed called the Day Tripper that had an opening. And, I mean, I'd always been a dancer—started taking ballet when I was six cuz, um…" She bit her lip, grinning a little. "Well, they said that I was too 'rambunctious' in the class room, so they told my parents to stick me in ballet cuz they thought that I'd burn off the extra energy dancing—either that, or I'd really lose it because ballet's so strict and there are a lot of rules that you have to follow, and I've never done well with rules."

A smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth (oh, he liked her).

"But, uh, surprisingly, I really enjoyed it and was good at it," she continued. "Kept up with it until I finished high school. Everyone, my grandmother especially, wanted me to go to France and become this prima ballerina at the Paris Opéra or something." She glanced skyward, like she thought that those ideas were all too fanciful and ridiculous, even for her. "But that wasn't for me. Besides, I couldn't have even if I'd wanted to. My boobs are too big."

"Oh, so we're back on that again?"

Her eyebrows arched. "Are you complaining? I could change the subject—"

"Oh, no, not at all," he assured her, grinning. "Please, continue—don't hesitate to go into detail."

She pursed her lips, barely concealing a smirk, but continued. "Okay, so…like I said, I have no problem with breasts, especially mine. I mean, they're great, aren't they?"

"Oh yeah."

"There's this thing—I think Freud came up with it—called 'penis envy,' where women supposedly wish that they had a dick of their own? Sorry, but I'm content with my metaphorical one; it's huge. And I'd rather have breasts."

He snorted. "All guys secretly wish they had tits, anyway."

"I know, right?" she said enthusiastically. "That's what I was gonna say."

"Don't get me wrong," he added quickly. "It's great having a dick, but boobs are a lot more fun. I don't know how you ladies keep your hands off yourselves."

"Oh, it's not easy, trust me. Honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if…y'know…" She watched him carefully. "It turned out that I liked girls more than boys."

When he spoke, her face brightened with relief.

"I don't blame you—naked women are just _so _much nicer to look at than guys."

"Right, like…with a naked girl, it's like everything sort of…falls into place, y'know? Like it's all clearly there, but it isn't _jumping _out at you. But with a naked guy, it's just…_out _there, like he's saying, 'Hey, baby, here I am!' And I just…no. No. I like dick, but I don't wanna look at it."

"Plus, kissing girls is so much nicer."

"Exactly," she said, nodding. Then, "Shit, no, I mean…fuck me."

"When and where?" he snickered. "Seriously, though, honey pie, one of my friends is a lesbian. I'm totally cool with it—"

"No, it's just that," she stumbled, trying to explain herself, "I kissed a girl, I liked it, but I still like boys, too. Like, _a lot_."

"Yeah?" he asked, giving her a charming grin.

She leaned in toward him, getting closer.

"Yeah."

**۞۞۞**

"Honey pie_…_" he whispered to no one. It was the middle of the night, completely black save for the gleaming shaft of moonlight that poured through the window behind him. Why no light shone through the other windows, he wasn't sure, but that was just one thing that made him wonder if this was a dream.

"_Honey pie…_" he sighed again, tipping his head back.

Just like that, she materialized from nowhere—a speck of dust sparkled in the silvery light and there she was. For once, her hair wasn't tied up in that God-awful ponytail, instead hanging loose around her shoulders. Except for the sides. She had pulled them back.

Her uniform was white, no blood. Clean and crisp and _tight_. Shorter, too, than what she normally wore. And low-cut.

He licked his lips, feeling a familiar heat beginning to grow in his nether regions. She wasn't wearing a bra, but everything was still so pert.

"_Honey pie…_"

Her hips began to rock as she slowly undid her uniform from the waist up, fingering each button one by one. Lithe fingers lingering just a moment on the top button, teeth sunk into her lower lip, she spun gracefully. Turning her back to him and bending over, she wiggled out of her panties. They were red. Watching him over her shoulder, she twisted the panties around her fingers, and then threw them to him. He caught them with ease and held the lacey fabric to his nose, giving her a wicked grin the entire time.

"_Honey pie…_" he moaned a little.

Her high heels—a pair of bright red, six-inch numbers, not those squeaky, white nurse's shoes—clicked on the beige and puke-green tiles as she circled his bed, soundlessly pulling the curtains shut. She remained outside, standing at the foot of the bed.

Encased in a sheer white cage, he could only see nothing but the curtain. But then, her silhouette shone in front of a huge yellow spotlight. Her back was to him; he could tell by the way she moved. Damn, the way she moved…

One hand on her hip, she reached up to remove her nurse's cap, tossing it aside, sending it whizzing through the air. Gripping each side of her collar, she ripped her uniform open in one fluid movement and shimmied out of the binding outfit, kicking it aside as if it were nothing. Naked (or so he assumed), she reached out, took a hold of a pole that ran from ceiling to floor, and swung around, rubbing herself against it. Up and down, up and down. Where the pole had come from, he didn't know; probably the same place as the moon, the spotlight, and she herself.

"_Honey pie…_" He was pleading with her, now completely hard. He wanted to see her, needed to feel her.

The curtains at the foot of his bed flew open.

"_Honey pie…_"

There she stood. Naked, just like he had wanted, though the golden yellow spotlight made it difficult to actually see her. He didn't care; she was coming toward him.

"_Honey pie…_"

She slipped a hand behind her head and removed the two pins that held her hair in place, dipping low and shaking her sandy locks all about before whipping back up to look at him. Slowly, she began to approach.

She climbed onto the bed, running her hands along every inch of him as she crawled forward. Stopping at his eager length, she smirked, reaching down, stroking gently, torturously. He gasped a little.

"_Honey pie…_

_Honey pie…_"

Hovering over him, hands on either side of his head, she leaned in, mouth so close to his, and whispered softly:

"_I love you, honey pie._"

For once, he said nothing. Simply ran his fingers through her hair and, cupping her face, closed the distance between then.

**۞۞۞**

Once again, this is probably as close to a sex scene as you are ever going to get from me. Let me know what you think! Also, I hope this chapter wasn't too Lizzy-centric. Even though it was all told from Max's POV, I'm worried that it might focus on her a little too much.

**Notes****:**

"My oldest brother, Chuck…" – in a lot of ways, Chuck is very much like Max. As Lizzy said, they're both stubborn and pissy, but they're also both laidback, fun-loving nonconformists who are very loyal to the people that they care about, even if they don't always show it. Chuck, however, is a bit more serious and responsible than Max is, for obvious reasons. He isn't really a father figure to Lizzy, though he has had a major influence on her. For instance, he's where she gets her loud mouth and short temper. :)

"…a doctor or a lawyer or a business executive…" – this isn't a reference to anything written by the Beatles, I'm afraid. However, instead I'm quoting a fairly awesome song entitled "Little Boxes" by Pete Seeger.

…a dick of their own? – is it just me, or does this sounds sort of like a porno version of Virginia Woolf's novel _A Room of One's Own?_ Actually, seeing how I just finished two classes in which a good many lessons focused on Woolf and her writing, it _could _just be me. :D

"I kissed a girl, I liked it…" – yes, I'm shamelessly referencing the Katy Perry song "I Kissed a Girl."

"_Honey pie…_" – sadly, I think that this might be the only Beatles's reference in the entire chapter.

They were red. – even though he should have been able to see red panties through a white uniform. Just keep telling yourself that it's all a dream. :)


End file.
